


With Liberty

by thepriexperience



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Smut, Dean Winchester/Reader Smut, Dean x Reader, F/M, Smut, blatant ignorance of the legal system, my apologies to the lawyers in my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 02:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15571566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepriexperience/pseuds/thepriexperience
Summary: You’re a public defender who just got Dean Winchester’s case. Your client doesn’t seem concerned with his release, but you’re determined to do right by him.





	With Liberty

This wasn’t exactly what you had in mind when you spent a hundred thousand dollars on law school. Not the cheap suit or the “open office” setting, or the huge room full of more expensive suits than your own for the clients that can’t afford respectable clothing.

“Go to law school,” your parents said. “Lawyers make good money.”

Yeah, right. Maybe in corporate, where a woman got promotions on her knees or back a lot easier than she did on the courtroom floor. You went to law school to help people, to make the world a safer place, not to make a six-figure salary.

So, to the public defender’s office you went, determined to make a difference, truly believing in a fair defense, in innocent until proven guilty. In the last year and a half, that’s gotten a lot harder. Your clients are often guilty as hell, and you have to get them off or, barring that, get the best deal you can.

This isn’t why you became a lawyer.

 _Never believe the propaganda_ , you think to yourself, looking at your diploma while you drink your morning coffee, the cheapest kind the store sells. The apartment is small, but it serves its purpose; it’s not like you’re here all that often. You spend most of your time at the office, working your cases, helping with others. You’ll get out of debt eventually, faster than some of your fellow graduates if their Facebook pictures of new BMWs and houses with swimming pools are any indication, maybe open your own practice. Chase ambulances.

You admit to yourself that you could probably find another job if you wanted- You were third in your class, and you’re good at what you do. But, as much shit as you talk- The few clients that were innocent (or innocent enough; two ounces of weed shouldn’t send anyone to jail) make your job somewhat fulfilling.

The file on your desk makes you sigh. This job won’t be one of the fulfilling ones. Dean Winchester, a rap sheet as long as your arm, arrested this time for breaking and entering. He’ll get time for sure. How he’s managed to stay off the radar until now, you don’t know, especially after that business in St. Louis. You’d think people would notice a dead man walking around.

He’s got a brother, you read in his file, and you make a note of it on your legal pad. Sam’s got a record too, and from what you can tell, he should be showing up any minute. You get back in your car, head to the police station, and step inside the interrogation room.

“Mr. Winchester, I’m from the public defender’s office, my name is…”

You trail off, blinking unexpectedly at the sight of the man chained to the table in front of you. You had barely glanced at his picture back at the office, keeping to the black and white facts of his life and his case. That was a mistake. You could have prepared yourself at least a little for how handsome he is.

He grins at you, wide and bright, like you’re at a bar and he’s about to offer to buy you a drink.

“Hey. What was that?” he asks, voice light with a tease, and you clear your throat, manage to get your name out this time as you seat yourself across from him.

“Mr. Winchester,” you begin again.

“Dean,” he says. “Just call me Dean.”

“Dean. We have some work to do if we’re going to get you a good deal.”

“Don’t bother.” He leans back in his chair, still smiling at you, green eyes flashing with mirth.

You frown. It’s like this is a joke to him.

“Mr. Win- Dean. You’ve got a record, a pretty impressive one, and you just got caught breaking into a crime scene. They’re going to try to pin the murder that happened there on you, say you went back to erase any evidence of you being in the store.”

He looks at you curiously, leans forward now, elbows on the table, his wrists held close together, but he keeps his hands open, fingertips reaching towards you.

“What makes you think that’s not exactly what I did?”

That stops you short. His tone is deathly serious, voice pitched low, rough like gravel. He spent the night in lockup, five o’clock shadow on his face, dark circles under his green and honey eyes. The question is a dare, a coin toss, and you can see it in the set of his jaw- He doesn’t care whether it lands heads or tails.

“Maybe it is,” you say. “I’ve read your file- What you did to those women in Missouri. Maybe you branched out.”

He sighs, and there’s a flash of…  _something_  across his features. Of what, you’re not sure.

“Look, sweetheart, I’m not gonna kill some old guy who owns a liquor store. Not my style. And I didn’t kill those girls.”

You let your eyes drop shut, frustrated with him already. He’s too goddamn good-looking, makes his lies almost believable.

It doesn’t matter if he’s a killer or not. Your job is to defend him. Get him a good deal.

Innocent until proven guilty, right?

“It doesn’t matter either way,” you tell him. “I’m here to help you. Now, have you called your brother yet?”

“Sam? Nah, they haven’t let me make a phone call.”

You frown. “They can’t-“

“You’re new, aren’t you? Still believe in justice for all? Sweetheart, you live my kind of life, your reputation precedes you. They’re not gonna let me call my brother and chance him getting me out of here.”

“It’s my job to make sure you’re protected under the letter of the law,” you insist, ignoring his implications of a possible jail break. “It’s your legal right to make a phone call.”

He smiles at you again. “How about you just take a message to him instead?”

You nod, open your bag and pull out your legal pad and a pen, push it across the table toward him, watch as he scribbles something onto it, then tears it off and folds it shut.

“How do I find Sam?”

He touches the pen back to the paper, then slides both to you. “Call this number. He’ll take care of the rest.”

“Okay.”

“No briefcase,” he notes. “Fashion statement, or just too broke?”

You glare at him. “What makes you think I’m broke?”

“You think I don’t recognize a second-hand suit when I see it? You wear it well, for what it’s worth,” he says, that megawatt grin back on his face, eyes twinkling.

“Can we stay on the task at hand, please?”

“Sure thing.” He leans back in his chair once again, hands across his lap. “You really gonna give that to my brother for me?”

“Yes. I’m also going to ask that they give you your phone call.”

“Don’t worry about that. Hey- can you find out what happened to my car?”

“You’re facing serious time here, and you’re worried about your car.”

“Family heirloom,” he jokes.

You make a note on your legal pad. This conversation is going anything like you expected it to. You’ve never met a client whose first question wasn’t some variation of  _When can I get out of here?_

“I’ll see what I can find. Now, look, with all the previous charges- especially how you managed to fake your death in St. Louis…. How  _did_  you… You know what? I don’t care. The point is, I don’t think I can get you out on bail.”

“That’s not a problem. Don’t even bother trying, it’s a waste of your time, sweetheart. They’re not letting me walk out of here without cuffs on my ankles.”

“Do you even want out?”

“Of course I do. Just know it’s not gonna happen through legal channels.”

Now you lean back in your chair, cross your arms over your chest. “You doubt my ability as a lawyer?”

“I think you get what you pay for, sweetheart.”

“Fuck you.” It slips out before you can really think about, your pride making you angry at his jab, but once it’s been said you cover your mouth, eyes going wide. You’ve never lost your temper with a client before.

He laughs, loud and light-hearted, betraying the surroundings and the file in your bag that tell you what kind of man he supposedly is. A killer, a criminal- Hardened.

But, that laugh doesn’t match up with what you’ve read about him.

“I deserve that,” he says. “I’m sure you’re real good at your job, but we’re on opposite ends of the legal system. You work inside it, and I work outside it. We’re playing for the same team, though. I can tell you that much.”

“You’re saying you’re one of the good guys.”

“I’m saying I didn’t kill those girls. And I didn’t kill that guy three nights ago.” He looks at you curiously, weighing his options, and you squirm under the scrutiny.

“Whether you did or not doesn’t matter. It’s about what I can prove in open court.”

“I’m not taking a plea bargain,” he tells you firmly. “You just get that message to Sammy, alright?”

“Anything else?”

“Think you can sneak me a cheeseburger in here?” Dean asks, his full lips quirked up.

You can’t help it, you smile back at him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

*

That was single-handedly the strangest conversation you’ve ever experienced. You’re sitting in your car in front of the station, looking at the walls holding Dean Winchester inside, replaying his words over and over. How nonchalant he was, how unconcerned he was about his situation. He seemed so sure of himself. Not scared at all.

It bugs you. It bugs you even more that you should think he’s arrogant and you don’t.

You’ve trained yourself not to let criminals get in your head. There are no guilty men in prison, right?

 _Lawyer fucked me_ , you think, remembering Shawshank.

But something about Dean- The light in his eyes, and his open palms, his gentle jokes and his easy manner… His record doesn’t add up to the man who sat in front of you just ten minutes ago.

_Yeah, and every serial killer was described as a nice guy by his neighbors. Fucking get it together._

You pull out your cell phone, type in the number Dean gave you and dial. The first ring hasn’t finished when a man’s voice comes on the line.

“Dean! Where are you?”

“I’m not Dean,” you say, suddenly feeling apologetic. Sam sounds so worried, scared because his brother isn’t where he said he would be. You give your name, and explain, “I’m his lawyer. He gave me this number and a note to give you. Can you meet me?”

Fifteen minutes later, an extraordinarily tall man with long brown hair sits across the booth from you, his jaw tight with worry and frustration. He’s polite to you, though, taking the note from your hand and reading over it quickly, giving one short chuckle in response to it, before tucking it into his jacket pocket.

“Thanks. I’m gonna-“

“Wait,” you say. “Please. I need to help your brother, and that’s going to be a lot easier if you can provide him with an alibi.”

“We weren’t here when George Sampson was killed,” he says. “But, there’s no way for us to prove that. And with Dean’s record, an alibi for this won’t matter.”

“It does make things… challenging,” you admit. “But, I have a job to do. Neither of you are making it easy on me.”

“Your job’s done,” Sam tells you. “Just go home, take the rest of the day off. Whatever. You already helped enough.”

“No.”

Sam smiles at you, warm eyes soft and friendly. “Why do you care so much?”

“My job’s all I have. Listen, they said the guy in St. Louis- Your brother- He’s supposed to be dead. They buried the body. If we can prove there’s still a corpse in that casket- Lots of people share the same name, look similar. Everyone’s got a doppleganger out there, right? As for all the B&E stuff, well, we can probably get some of those dropped for insufficient evidence or statute of limitations, plus-“

“Whoa, hang on a minute. You’re talking about trying to exonerate my brother for everything he’s ever done.”

“It’s honestly the only way I can get him off for the current charges.”

Sam laughs, and it’s similar to his brother’s, not as loud. He seems a little more aware of the shit storm Dean’s in than Dean does. Or maybe he just cares more.

Shaking his head, he replies, “Yeah, you’re probably right. I appreciate you wanting to help, I do. I just don’t think it’s worth the effort.”

“Not worth the effort to keep your brother out of prison?”

“He’s not going to prison.”

You blink, process this. It’s suddenly very clear to you. Dean’s nonchalance. Sam’s urgency to leave.

“As your brother’s lawyer, I advise you not to do what you’re obviously planning to.”

“Go home,” he says. “Go home and-“

“No. Jesus, don’t the two of you get it? I want to help you, and my time is free. Take advantage of that.” You pause. Sam looks like a kicked puppy. You exhale heavily. “Sam… Let me help.”

*

Grumbling under your breath, you walk back into the police station an hour later. You’re supposed to be a lawyer, not passing notes. This time, you’re waiting for Dean when he walks in the room. An officer goes to cuff him to the table and you wave him off.

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at you, doesn’t say anything until the door closes behind the cop.

“What’s that about?”

“I’m your lawyer. You’re never going to trust me if I don’t show you some trust first.” You reach into your bag, hand over Sam’s note. “This is from your brother.” You reach into it again. “And this is from me. Hope you like onions.”

His entire face lights up, and he reaches across the table to take the burger, unwrapping it like it’s Christmas morning. He moans when he takes the first bite, and the sound is almost pornographic, making you blush and drop your gaze. It’s just a burger. No one should be that happy about a burger.

“Thanks,” he says after he swallows. “I’m starving.”

“No problem. Are you ready to talk about your case now?”

“Talk all you want. You’re way better company than my roommate.”

You sigh. The brothers seem convinced that the only way to get the oldest one out of here is to sneak him out. You can’t really condone that, given your profession, but something in you thinks it would be better if Dean were on the streets instead of in here. You really don’t want to see him locked up for the rest of his life, which is ridiculous.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Who’s in the grave in St. Louis?”

Dean doesn’t answer right away. He sets his burger down on its wrapper, licks his fingers, swallows another bite. He laces his fingers together, looks directly at you, his stare never wavering. You’ve never met anyone who could look this intently without trying to intimidate.

“You really wanna know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

He nods. “It’s not who, but what. And what is in the grave is something wearing my face.”

You pull back, shocked. Okay, so- You’ve had clients who were crazy before. Just a couple, but it happens. People live too long in the extreme, or do too many drugs, or just snap because nine to five isn’t really a way for people to exist.

He’s suffering from delusions, that much is obvious. You want to sigh- The super hot ones always have something wrong with them.

He laughs, and it sounds like he’s mocking you.

“Yeah, figures.”

You clear your throat. “Attorney-client privilege means I can’t tell anyone anything. You could confess to me, right here, right now. Tell me you-“

“I could tell you I killed all those women, a hundred more, and ol’ George and you couldn’t tell anyone. I know.”

“So, why lie? Because, the insanity defense- It only works in the movies. I’m not Richard Gere-“

“Primal Fear. That was a great movie.”

“Yeah… Yeah.” You tilt your head. “If you’re not honest with me-“

“I was honest with you. It’s not my fault you don’t believe me, sweetheart.”

“Dean…” You shake your head. “Okay, let’s say I do believe you. Does that mean if we run its DNA, it won’t be yours?”

“Now that I can’t be sure of. Might be mine, might be something they can’t explain under a microscope. Might just have traces of me. Not really up to date on the science behind shapeshifters, ya know.”

You drop your head into your hands, counting backwards from ten. You should have listened to Sam, gone home, drank some whiskey, watched some shitty daytime soaps. You’re surprised when Dean puts a hand on your arm, thumb stroking across your skin.

“Hey, hey,” he says, tone softer now, no more bravado. “Don’t stress yourself out about this. It’s okay. Really. Forget I said anything, and just-“

“Go home?” you asks, looking up at him. “That’s what your brother said to do.”

“Sammy’s pretty smart.”

His hand is still on your arm. You’ve never let a client touch you before, and you’ve definitely never stretched your hands out across the table to touch one of them. Your hands rest on his forearms, his skin warm under yours, your fingertips brushing against the cotton of his rolled up sleeves.

“So am I,” you tell him. “And usually, I know when someone’s lying to me, or when they’re nuts and think they’re telling the truth. But you- I can’t get a read on you.”

He smiles. “I’m one of a kind.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that.” You smile at him, shaking your head. “Alright, fine. So you’re crazy or you’re a liar. Either way, I’m going to do what I can to get you out of here without your brother breaking the law to do it.”

He shifts, lifts his cuffed hands to hold one of yours between them. The palms are calloused, rough against the smoothness of your hand, and there’s a sincerity in his eyes, a warmth there that, crazy or not, you can’t help but be swayed by.

“Thank you,” he says. “But don’t put yourself on the line like that. I get the feeling you’re a good person.”

“I get that same feeling about you.”

And that’s all you can base this on- A feeling. That he’s not a bad person, that he doesn’t deserve to be in prison.

You say, “Let me ask you something else- George. What happened?”

“We’re not sure yet. I went to check out the store while Sam was interviewing his daughter. Usually, we go together, but we split up this time, trying to cover more ground in less time.”

“That was a mistake.”

“Yeah, it was.”

You pull your hand away from his, scoot backwards in your chair, immediately missing the warmth of his hands. You pull out your legal pad and your pen, and when you look up, Dean is smiling at you again, rolling his eyes.

“You’re just not gonna quit, are you?”

“Nope. Tell me everything about St. Louis.”

He does. Mostly, you don’t take notes, you just listen, eyes growing wide every now and again. Dean has a gift for storytelling, and even if it’s all bullshit, it’s riveting. When he comes to an end, you take a couple minutes to digest it all, tapping your pen against the table.

“You okay over there, sweetheart?”

“Do you have a driver’s license?” you ask suddenly. “One that isn’t fake.”

“Yeah. In my wallet.”

“And a social?”

“Yeah…”

“The… The shapeshifter. Did he have your wallet on him when he…”

“Yeah.”

“And was the license and social in that wallet real?”

Dean grins suddenly. “Damn, smart girls are hot.”

You blush.

*

Literally, every single cop in the station hates you. The judge hates you. And Dean can’t stop smiling as you argue for bail. He was caught red-handed here, but wanting to steal a couple bottles of booze isn’t something a person goes to prison for.

Reasonable doubt- It’s a bitch.

Dean’s rubbing his wrists as he steps out onto the sidewalk, shaking his head in amazement.

You say, “Your car’s been impounded. It’ll take a day or two to get it out, but I’m guessing you won’t be around that long.”

He shrugs. “Probably not.” Dean stops, lays a hand on your elbow, thumb pressing against you firmly. “Thank you. Really, you didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s my job.” You laugh. “And maybe I like you a little bit.”

“Got a thing for bad boys, huh?”

You shake your head. “Not even a little.”

The shit-eating grin falters, changes into something softer, more real. He slides his hand from your elbow up to your shoulder, to the base of your neck, moves in a little closer. You can feel the warmth of him, his shirt brushing against your suit jacket.

“I gotta go,” he says. “Need to find my brother, get back to work. But, I wanna see you before I leave.”

You rattle off your address without a second thought.

*

It’s nine o’clock the following night before you hear from him. He calls, and it takes you a moment to remember Sam would have your number saved in his call history. Dean offers to bring over a six pack and a pizza, and you accept quickly.

He’s there within twenty minutes, and you’ve changed out of your pajamas and into jeans and a tanktop. He looks you up and down appreciatively.

“I dunno,” he says. “I think I like the suit better.”

You roll your eyes and take the beer from him, and as you walk away, hear him shut and lock your front door before following you into the living room. He sits down next to you on the couch, puts the box on the coffee table. You switch on the television, let reruns of some old sitcom serve as background noise, both of you watching half-heartedly during the first slice, but after you’ve had a couple sips of your beer, you turn down the volume.

“Did you…”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “You wanna know?”

“Nope.” You shiver a little. You’re still not sure if the story about the shapeshifter is true or not, but the knot in your gut tells you it is, which means whatever Dean did tonight would give you nightmares. “Just glad you’re okay.” A beat. “I take it your car’s outside?”

He smiles. That’s more than enough of an answer. You shake your head.

“I could have gotten it out for you, you know.”

“You’ve done enough. Really.” Dean moves closer to you on the couch, sets your beer on the table, lays his hand on your knee, leans in, his nose bumping against yours. “This okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” you reply, and close the distance, pressing your lips to his.

His lips are so soft and full, warm against yours, and he opens his mouth to you, presses his tongue against yours, draws your bottom lip between his teeth for a second. His other hand comes to rest on the nape of your neck, thumb pressed lightly to the hollow behind your ear, but he doesn’t push, waiting for you to make the next move. He’s shaved since you last saw him, and you touch your hands to his cheeks, let the fingers of one hand slide into his hair. You whimper a little into his kiss, taste beer and spice on his tongue, your mouths moving together with ease, and already, your heart’s starting to race.

You pull away, and his eyes open, darkened with lust.

“Should I go?”

You shake your head, getting to your feet and bringing him with you. “Bedroom.”

His mouth is back on yours, and you swallow his growl, his hands tangling in your hair, his hips knocking into yours as he leads you, backwards, down your short hallway and into your room, only breaking your kiss long enough to pull your shirt over your head. You’re expecting him to lean you backwards and drop on top of you, but he doesn’t. Dean draws you against his chest and then sits down on your bed, his hands sliding down your back, over your ass, and he pulls you onto his lap by the back of your thighs. Your bra is on the floor a second later, and Dean’s mouth is all over you, kissing your collarbone, the valley between your breasts, suckling on your nipples. You cling to him, grinding down on the solid bulge you can feel between your legs, straining against his jeans.

You pull his shirt up and over his head, lean in to kiss his neck, bite his shoulder, and his arms around you, his fingers pressing into your back, your shoulder blades, his head dropping back, baring his throat to you. You trail your mouth across his skin, your hands searching his chest, finding a couple of scars, beneath your fingertips, and he pushes back against you, leaning you back on his thighs so he can find your lips with his again. His fingers make quick work of the fly of your pants, and you giggle when he flips you onto your back suddenly, raising your hips eagerly so he can slide the denim down your legs and throw it onto the floor behind him. Your hands fumble a little with his belt buckle, but he helps, reaching into his back pocket for a condom before kicking out of his jeans.

And suddenly, you’re both very, very naked.

He’s on his knees, between your thighs, a hand on your stomach, condom packet in the other.

“You want to stop?” he asks.

“No. I want you.”

He stretches his arm out, drops the condom on your bedside table, then moves backwards on your bed til he’s flat on his belly, pressing a kiss to your knee, making his way up your thigh. You lift your hips in anticipation, his hands holding your thighs open for him as he presses his lips against your sex. You gasp, his tongue warm as it slips between your folds, licking from your entrance all the way to-

You moan, bucking sharply; it’s been a long time.

Dean doesn’t stop, working you over like he’s done this to you a thousand times, knowing exactly what you like, letting you lead. Your hands are fisted in the sheets, and you’re moving against his face, aching with need, one hand finding his shoulder and squeezing tightly. He doesn’t slow or get bored; he actually groans a little, pulls away to tell you, his fingers still stroking your clit, exactly how good you taste, how he’s not even close to done.

And you’re begging for more, and he gives it, filling you easily with two of his fingers, working them inside you, opening you up for him as he sucks on your most sensitive spot, until you’re coming, over and over, somehow wanting,  _needing_  more. You feel greedy, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind. Finally, you have to push him away, and he sucks his fingers into his mouth, then reaches for the condom.

“You ready for me, sweetheart?”

“Dean,  _please_.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, rolling the condom on, and you swallow at the sight. The bulge didn’t lie; he’s huge. “I’m gonna give you whatever you want.”

“You. Want all of you.”

He lowers himself down, resting on his elbows, one arm beneath your back, hand palming your shoulder, the other brushing the hair out of your face as he settles between your legs. You kiss him, tasting your slick on his lips, moving to kiss and lick it off his chin and his cheeks. He takes himself in hand, presses the head inside of you, the touches your face again, shifting his hips forward, filling you slowly inch by inch.

Your hands are everywhere, wanting to touch every part of him, his back, his ribs. The strong muscles in his thighs, gripping his ass, pulling him deeper inside of you as you cant your hips upward. He groans deeply, curses, and kisses you, again and again, rocking into you slow and sure, his movements steady, drawing little whimper and moans from you. He feels so good, so solid, and your legs start to shake as your pleasure builds again.

“That’s it,” he says as you tighten up on him. “Go on, sweetheart, let me feel it.”

You call his name, arching upwards, your chest brushing against his, hand in his hair to draw his mouth to your neck, shaking with the intensity. Dean licks the sweat from your skin, nuzzles at your jawline, still pumping into you, the hand on your shoulder drifting to grab one of your hands, press it on to mattress next to your head. You run your nails down the back of his neck and he shudders, his pace speeding up, his thrusts a little harder, a little rougher, and you feel another orgasm starting to coil tight in your tummy.

“Not gonna last much longer,” Dean tells you. “You feel so fucking good on my dick, fuck.”

And that pushes you over the edge, nails biting into his skin, and then he’s coming with you, and you can feel it, and it’s amazing, fuck, this is fucking great, fuck, fuck, fuck…

His forehead is pressed to yours, his whole body trembling a little with exertion, his eyes closed and you touch your free hand to his cheek. He looks so vulnerable, so sweet.

Nothing like the man you read about at your desk two days ago.

He turns his head, kisses your palm, lets go of your other hand so he can cup your face, kiss you full and sweet and soft, before pulling out with a muted groan, dropping onto his back. A second later, he sits up.

“Give me a minute.”

He ambles into the bathroom, and a minute later, he’s back in your bedroom, sliding in next to you, and pulling you against him, your head resting on his shoulder, and he takes your hand in his, rests it on his chest. Dean presses his cheek against your forehead for a second, then shifts so he can look at you.

“I’d like to see you again,” he says. “But I think you’re not gonna like me so much when you’re in trouble tomorrow at work.”

“You’re skipping town, huh?”

“Kinda have to. You’re good, but I can’t stay long enough for you to try to get me out of my entire record.”

“It is pretty impressive.” You sigh. “Just don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

“That mean I get to stay?”

You nod against his chest, disappointed, even though you knew when you got him out on bail that he wouldn’t stick around for a full trial. Which is a shame, because you could use the court time. And also because he doesn’t deserve the reputation he has.

“Dean,” you say.

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said.” You lift up enough to face him. “I don’t like bad boys. I like good men.”

He doesn’t say anything, his expression tender as he simply pulls you in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like this story? Tell me! First three of you to send an ask about this get a drabble of your very own. :) 
> 
> the-pri-experience.tumblr.com


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